


Baby, It's Cold Outside

by Satan In Purple (purple_satan)



Series: Snarky Science Wives of Overwatch [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Holiday Fic Exchange, Moicy Secret Santa Exchange 2017, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Sass, Smoking, formal wear, slight PTSD, spine implants, the softest of very soft body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 20:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13221039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_satan/pseuds/Satan%20In%20Purple
Summary: “It's rare I get to admire you and my work at the same time. Usually one diverts my attention from the other.”Moira and Angela catch up at a holiday work party. Pre-fall of Overwatch fic for the Moicy Secret Santa Exchange 2017!





	Baby, It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дорогая, снаружи холодно](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13438815) by [Matthew_F_Jones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matthew_F_Jones/pseuds/Matthew_F_Jones)



> **for kw, prompt: formal attire.**
> 
> inspo for this fic from [this backless dress Moicy pic from Mogatrat](http://mogatrat.tumblr.com/post/168265809137/you-look-striking-darling-go-show-them-your) which inspired my formal wear story, and [aicosu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aicosu) coming in clutch to help with my OW questions, bless <3
> 
> i tried to keep this light as i could! no satan formal wear funerals or anything!

 

 

“You’ve been avoiding me.”  
  
Angela tilts her chin up and inhales from the cigarette she's holding. Turns to her left. Watches as Moira deftly slips a cigarette between her own red lips and lights it, gracefully pocketing her gold-plated lighter in her high-waisted black slacks.  
  
“If I wanted to talk about genomic sequencing, I’d send you a memo while we were working,” Angela replies, waving the other woman off. “Try being social for a change, _liebling.”_ __  
  
Moira looks down. Her expression pinched, displeasure clearly evident. She wedges in close enough their elbows brush on the balcony railing. Angela can practically feel the other woman’s restlessness underneath the formal trappings of dark wool and cashmere. Her crimson colored dress shirt the color of spilt blood and the black tie loose at her neck. The checked print of her green pocket square. Her height accentuated by the cut of her suit, spider-long limbs and sharp angles.  
  
Everything about her is sharp, a thin bag of razors in pretty wrappings.  
  
Angela exhales a plume of blue-gray smoke into the night sky. It wafts into the chilly air, curling shapes and wisps as it drifts away. Minutes pass that would be companionable were she with almost anyone else, instead of acutely aware of the woman next to her.  
  
“What do you want, Moira?”  
  
“I’m bored,” the other woman answers sourly, after a long drag of her own cigarette. She leans against the railing, twisting her torso so she can look Angela in the eye. Ash falls from her cigarette to the ground, fluttering away in the breeze.  
  
“You’re always bored outside the lab.”  
  
“I’m not bored when I’m with you.” Moira steps closer, voice pitched lower. “Knowing you’d be in that dress made leaving the lab worth the idle chatter.”    
  
_Of course._  
  
Unlike Moira, Angela loves holiday parties. Loves seeing everyone, catching up and helping hang the garish decorations. Eating sweets and the general air of celebration without a battle having been won for a change.  
  
Angela rolls her eyes as she catches Moira’s gaze rake up and down her body, appreciating one of the rarified moments she’s deliberately chosen to be out of a lab coat or her valkyrie undersuit. Silky fabric kisses the curves of her body in a plain, but comfortable way. A modest slit up the side enough for movement and matching high heels. The dress is really only daring in the fact the plunging back showcases all the crisscrossed mistakes she’s made over the years.  
  
She shivers as Moira’s right hand leaves the railing, gently coming down on her shoulder. Ice runs across her exposed skin, the simple crème silk unable to shield her body from the other woman’s chill.  
  
Suddenly the ground plummets from beneath her feet. She panics, feeling the phantom pain of wings that won’t open to spare her descent. Hands clutching the railing, she almost drops her cigarette over the side. Feels the powerful grip of Moira’s hand on her, nails biting into her skin and grounding her back onto the balcony. Peering down, Angela sees the stories high drop and shivers again.  
  
She misses the protective feeling of her suit, the familiar weight on her shoulders and back.  
  
_—the other woman’s hands like scalpels, quickly and efficiently baring her skin on the gurney. She only hazily remembers being rushed into the emergency room, prototype suit around her in ruins, wings askew—_  
  
Moira lets go of her shoulder. Trails her nails back down, just barely dipping inside the low hem that rests on the small of her back.  
  
Angela gasps as her clever fingers skate along the metal and the other woman leans back, satisfied.  
  
“You normally hide it.”  
  
“It’s grotesque.”  
  
“Beautiful,” Moira corrects.  
  
“Necessary, but grotesque.” Angela replies, remembering the ugly, twisted scar tissue tracks. Skin grafted to metal mesh. Days of rehabilitation, days in the lab of Moira alone helping rebuild the nerve endings of her spine.  
  
Mismatched eyes stare into her own. The other woman's scarred hands brush her golden hair out of the way, carding through her bangs. “Don’t hide who you are. Or your sacrifices.”  
  
“You sound like Ana,” Angela scoffs, closing her eyes. She shivers as Moira’s fingertips drag along her cheek. The feeling of falling, of the world bleeding around her, shifts to a weightlessness that makes her stomach tighten. The hairs on her arms prickle as Moira moves in even closer, eclipsing the moon and stars in the sky.  
  
“It's rare I get to admire you and my work at the same time. Usually one diverts my attention from the other.”  
  
_"Narcissist.”_  
  
_“Martyr.”_  
  
“Is that what you think of me?” Angela lets out a short bark of laughter, eyes still closed. Moira traces the pad of her thumb over her brow, her slightly parted lips and she smiles into it. These delightful little games they play.  
  
Angela opens her eyes when Moira finally lets go of her. She makes a thoughtful noise, then carelessly flicks the butt of her long-since spent cigarette over the balcony rail.  
  
“Sometimes.”  
  
Angela shivers, finally stamping out her own cigarette. Crushing it under her heel, she begins to walk back into the party. Moira catches her wrist, nails grazing soft skin. A strange expression crosses her sharp features, but she leaves her question unsaid.  
  
_“Verdammt! Ist sehr kalt,_ Moira. Give me your jacket if you’re going to keep me sulking out here with you.”  
__  
“Angela.”  
  
_“Moira.”_  
  
“People will talk,” she finally replies, letting go of her wrist. She still shucks off the wool blazer efficiently, holding it out between them. Doesn’t bother helping Angela put it on.  
  
“Let them.”  
  
Shrugging into the garment with a mischievous smile, Angela finds it nearly skims her knees. The sleeves far too long for her arms, buttons doing nothing to help. It looks nothing like something she would ever own, the strangeness undoubtedly will draw attention immediately. People will mistake it for something they don’t understand.  
  
And how could they? The real mark of ownership had been on her all along. Grafted into her very being when she crashed down to earth and became intimately familiar with failure.  
  
Moira nods once, letting her go.  
  
“What did you want to talk about?”  
  
“I changed my mind,” Moira replies, waving her hand dismissively. There's an unlit cigarette between her fingers as she steps back into the shadows of the balcony. “Go enjoy your little party. I’ll come fetch my jacket later, _mo stoirín. ”_ __  
  
She doesn't wait for Moira to change her mind, quickly walking back inside the party. The clicking sound of her high heels on the marble flooring far too loud from the quiet refrain on the balcony she just had, but she opens the large glass doors anyway. Strings of holiday lights and garland jar her as she squints, her eyes adjusting. Heat and laughter greet her, bright colors and brighter smiles as she hears the continuous flow of chatter around her.  
  
It’s wonderful.  
  
_Simply marvelous,_ she thinks to herself, barely hiding a grin behind one of the inky black sleeves. She totters on her heels towards Jack and Ana, deep in conversation towards the edge of the room.  
  
Sparing the briefest of looks behind her, she sees Moira rolling up the sleeves of her burgundy dress shirt, and smiles. Her metal implants wink in the soft balcony lighting, smiling back.

**Author's Note:**

> not my usual fare, but i hope you guys enjoyed my entry for the 2017 Moicy Secret Santa exchange!
> 
> come find me @ either [purple-satan-fic](http://purple-satan-fic.tumblr.com) for my fic or [satan-in-purple](http://satan-in-purple.tumblr.com) for more overwatch stuff on tumblr!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Baby, it's cold outside (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13248156) by [Tat_Tat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tat_Tat/pseuds/Tat_Tat)




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